The silence that followed was broken by the ringing of the door-bell. The boys jumped from their chairs and started on a race for the door. "Boys!" said Mrs. Stout, sharply, and the three came to a sudden stop. "Set down." They obeyed, and wistfully watched their mother as she started for the front door. "Why, Miss Wallace!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout when she opened the door and saw who was there. "Come right in." "Thank you," replied Miss Wallace, "but I haven't time. I called to ask if Henry was feeling any better." "Better?" Mrs. Stout did not understand. "I hope--" "He ain't any better'n he ought to be, nor any worse'n some other boys I know of," said Mrs. Stout. "But is he not sick?" asked Miss Wallace. "Sick? Good land! No; he's eatin' his supper now," replied Mrs. Stout. Miss Wallace sighed, some one had been lying. "Who said he was sick?" asked Mrs. Stout, suspiciously. "I understood--" Miss Wallace began, and then hesitated for a moment. "He was absent this afternoon," she continued, "and I understood Paul and Wendell to say that he was sick." "Absent was he, from school?" said Mrs. Stout. "And them two boys lied about it? It won't happen again, Miss Wallace." At that moment a man walked past. Mrs. Stout peered into the darkness for a moment, and then called out: "Hello, is that you, Willie Flint?" "Yes. Oh, good evening, Mrs. Stout," replied Will, whom it proved to be, as he turned and retraced his steps. "I thought I knew your walk," said Mrs. Stout. "Won't you come in?" "No, thanks." "How's your mother?" "Nicely, but I must be going, good--" "Don't you be in such a hurry, Willie Flint," Mrs. Stout interrupted, and then added, "This is Miss Wallace here, and I guess you'd better beau her home; it's a pretty dark night for young women to be runnin' 'round alone." Barbara almost hated Mrs. Stout for saying that. She had remained silent because, for one reason, there had been no chance for her to speak, and another reason was that she hoped--she did and she did not--that Will would not follow Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Barbara was not unlike other young women in many ways. "Good evening, Mr. Flint," she said, determined to make the best of it whatever the outcome might be. "_Is_ that you, Bar--Miss Wallace?" said Will as he came into the yard and up the walk to the steps. Mrs. Stout noticed that he had started to say Barbara. "I'll 'tend to those boys, Miss Wallace. Good night," she said abruptly, and shut the door. "Good night," replied Barbara and Will, as they turned and went down the walk together. "Who was it, ma?" the boys asked in chorus when Mrs. Stout returned to the dining-room, but their mother ignored them. "Peter Stout," she began in a tone that made him jump, "Henry didn't go to school this afternoon, and Paul and Wendell told Miss Wallace that he was sick." "What!" exclaimed Peter, turning on his three sons, who sat trembling before him.